


A Visit From St. Nicholas (uncertain classification, fairy or tulpa?) -- journal entry by Dean Winchester (age 12)

by LilacFree



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Kids, Poetry, Profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilacFree/pseuds/LilacFree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winchesters start hunting young.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Visit From St. Nicholas (uncertain classification, fairy or tulpa?) -- journal entry by Dean Winchester (age 12)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Visit From St. Nicholas](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/88886) by Clement Clark Moore. 



> I offer this up with profound apologies to Clement Clark Moore and anyone whose childhood was harmed by the reading of this fic.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,  
Not a hunter was stirring, even Bobby, that souse.  
The shotguns were hung by the salt rounds with care,  
In case that a ghost or a demon came near.

Even John Winchester was snuggled in bed,  
Visions of Mary *that’s private* in his head.  
And Sammy in pjs and I with my knife  
Were plotting for Santa the scare of his life.

“He’s clearly a tulpa,” my brother explained,  
“Look how much substance by now he’s obtained.  
"Although only young children believe he is real,  
"(Barbie, Dean, really?) the situation’s ideal.”

“Everybody knows how the Santa myth goes:  
"Reindeer and sleigh! Toys; ho ho ho’s!”  
“Cherry nose, suit that’s red, beard that’s white,”  
I said, admitting that Sammy was right.

“But isn’t he known as a jolly old elf?”  
“I’ll load a clip with cold iron shells.”  
We couldn’t let Bobby and Dad in on the fun,  
For Santa will appear only to the young.

“He keeps track of children, the dirty old man,  
“So we’ll use his perversion as part of our plan.  
“If it’s true that he can tell between naughty and nice,  
“Keep being good, Sam -- I’ll take care of the vice.”

We bided our time 'til the grown-ups were snoring,  
Then on tip toes with whispers checked all the warding  
Repoured all the salt lines in drifts white as snow  
Then lay down to wait for the start of the show.

We had to sleep; Santa knows if you’re awake.  
Sammy curled up with a candy cane stake;  
I was packing a holy water squirt gun:  
I’d get only one shot, but it’d be a ‘good’ one.

We’d strung up tin cans everywhere it mattered.  
We sprang from our sleep when the alarm clattered.  
There by the tree! Our prey! My gun spat its load.  
A curse rang out. Sammy went in low. 

“Dammit! Dammit! Are you all ijdits? Balls!”  
Santa cried out, slumping against the wall.  
Dad stormed in, gun ready, breathing fire --  
Or was that the whiskey? I began to perspire.

“Dean, what’s going on here? Bobby? Holy shit!”  
Bobby looked down at the candy cane bits  
Stuck in his shirt. “What the hell! What the fuck?”  
“Sammy,” I hissed, “Get ready to duck.”

“Our Santa trap worked, Dad!” I earnestly said.  
“If St. Nicholas had come he’d now be dead.”  
“What about me?” Bobby plaintively cried.  
“It would only kill Santa,” Sammy replied.

Dad stared at us all. He breathed out a wheeze.  
\--or was it the whiskey? Or was it a sneeze?  
No! He started to laugh, he started to howl!  
John Winchester giggling? I’d expected a growl.

While from his chest plucking candy cane shards,  
Bobby grumbled, “Dean, go check the wards.  
“Sammy, get this cleaned up, don’t be lazy.  
“What did I expect? Winchesters are crazy.”

Dad looked up, his voice still all wobbly.  
“That was hilarious – uh, sorry, Bobby.”  
“Oh, forget it, seeing as I’ll live,” Bobby sighed.  
“I guess it was funny, after all, I survived.”

We listened from the kitchen, biding our time.  
With luck, we’d get away with this crime.  
“I don’t think they bought our tulpa conjecture.”  
“At this hour, Sammy, who wants a lecture?

“Our execution was flawless, all went as planned.  
“It’s not our fault that we bagged the wrong man.”  
But then, just as we thought we’d gotten away:  
“Get back here you two! I’ve something to say.”

We slunk in together. I started my confession.  
“Dad, it’s my fault,“ then saw his expression.  
Dad was smiling! Bobby too! “It’s okay, son.”  
“Bobby’s still whole and no damage was done.”

“And seeing that it’s Christmas, I’ll let you off.”  
“Clean up the mess,” Bobby behind his hand coughed.  
“And clean up the mess, get it all out of sight,  
“Merry Christmas, boys – it was a helluva night.”

~finis~


End file.
